The Code
by GoGirl212
Summary: The Musketeer motto is more than mere words, it is a code to abide by, even in the face of the unthinkable. But how do you learn to live it? Set early in Season 1. An entry to the July Fête des Mousquetaires contest with the theme Revenge.
1. Chapter 1

The two men circled each other warily, watching for tells, for tiny indications that might signal the next move the other would make. Would it be a low lunge trying to get under the other's defenses or an aggressive overhand attack requiring a close parry and leaving their opponent vulnerable to the main gauche in the opposite hand? So far, they had been rather evenly matched, but as the duel wore on, it was going to be stamina and experience that would win the day.

While some part of Athos was still chiding himself for allowing himself to be drawn into a duel at all, most of him was enjoying this. The elder son of the Comte du Bellay was a well-trained swordsman. It was rare for Athos to find an opponent outside of the Musketeers who could hold his own in a swordfight with him. The man was skilled, thoughtful and patient. His first parries were tests, and he quickly ascertained that Athos was slower to the left, obviously nursing the remnants of some injury. His drives had been targeted there after that, but he still could not gain enough on the seasoned soldier to exploit that weakness into an advantage. Athos for his part had let the man pursue the offensive, counting on his experience and better conditioning to parry the attacks and wait for signs that his opponent was tiring. Watching the man panting in front of him now, it seemed that tactic was paying off.

Aramis and Porthos stood to the side as seconds, watching with cool eyes and slight smiles as their comrade wore down his opponent. As du Bellay tired, his finesse started to slip. The attacks became clumsy as he tried instead to power through some of Athos's sharp defenses. The more experienced Musketeers, masters of combat themselves, could appreciate Athos's strategy in this. He did not want to kill, or even wound, the son of a Comte, so to win, he needed to push the man to a place where he could be subdued and give in. Athos was a fine enough swordsman to take this tactic and manage to remain unscathed himself and his fellow Musketeers, as always, remained impressed by the skill and intelligence with which Athos could handle a blade.

D'Artagnan however was not so sure. This was only his second experience with an actual duel – the first having been one they had instigated in order to get D'Artagnan thrown into a prison cell with the criminal Vadim. That time, he had been encouraged to fight in any way that allowed him to win. He had understood duels to be honorable things, and had learned through that experience that there was no honor in needlessly dying. But now this, to not really fight at all? Two months of sparring with the man regularly and D'Artagnan knew without a doubt that Athos was the better swordsman. He didn't understand why his mentor was prolonging this.

The six young men on the other side seemed to be having the same thoughts. They had gone from cheering their support of the young lord when he pursued an attack, to taunting Athos as a coward, afraid to move on the offensive. They could see the frustration growing in du Bellay, and Athos to them was now toying with their man, trying to humiliate him and perhaps not take the duel seriously. The mood was shifting, and tensions rising on both sides. Du Bellay's men shouted now at the Musketeers, calling them cowards as well. The three soldiers shifted their relaxed stance to one of alert. Hands still casually at their sides but ready to move to hilts and pistols should the situation further deteriorate. If Athos did not end this soon, there was likely to be a full out brawl and none of the Musketeers wanted that.

Infinitely patient, Athos waited for the opening he wanted. Du Bellay tried for a cross-side lunge and over extended as Athos slipped to the side. Athos continued his spiral away, but looped his arm with his main gauche around du Bellay's extended sword arm. Du Bellay, entangled with Athos, lost his footing and twisted to the ground. It was an easy matter then for Athos to further twist his arm, disarming the prone man. As du Bellay's sword clattered to the ground, Athos released the young man's sword arm and kneeled into his chest, pinning the young man's dagger hand to the ground. He crossed his own main gauche and sword at du Bellay's neck.

"Yield, sir," Athos said in a quiet voice of command. The man tried to push back, but the weight of Athos on his chest and arm left him flailing helplessly. He shifted his neck and felt the nick of Athos's blade bite his skin. Athos raised an eyebrow but did not shift his blades, "Do you yield, Sir?" he asked again, this time the tone holding threat.

Du Bellay knew he was defeated. "Yield, yield," he answered, laying his head back to the ground in submission and letting his limbs go limp. Athos immediately released him and sheathed his blades. He extended a hand to the prone young man to help him to his feet.

"Well-fought, sir," he said with honest respect, "I consider the matter closed." Du Bellay shoved Athos's hand away and pushed himself up on his elbows. His seconds were at his side a moment later, helping him up to his feet, picking up his weapons and brushing off his clothes.

Athos again tried to make amends. "You are a good swordsman. You fought honorably for what you thought was right. But there was no need for this," Athos said pointedly, "I was not the man who pursued your sister into the garden."

"Get out of my sight, _Musketeer_ ," du Bellay's lips curled in disgust as he said the word, "I don't need your empty words. You took advantage of my sister and then were too much the coward to even try to fight me in earnest. Your soldier tricks may have saved you, but you have no honor," he nearly spat.

Nonplussed, Athos shrugged and turned his back on the sputtering young noble and rejoined his friends. He handed his weapons to D'Artagnan while Porthos helped him on with his leather doublet. Aramis, hat slung low over his brow, kept a surreptitious watch on du Bellay and his friends. The group seemed unusually agitated, lingering around when most men would simply gather themselves and leave.

"Took your sweet time, 'eh?" Porthos quipped as he helped Athos to re-dress.

Athos raised an eyebrow and cocked his head as he buckled up his doublet. "Would you rather I had speeded things up by killing the eldest son of one of Louis's favorite nobles during an illegal duel over the virtue of his sister?" he responded coolly.

"No, no" Porthos laughed, clapping him on the shoulder, "We don't need any of that."

D'Artagnan handed Athos his weapons, a quizzical look on his face. "Would you have done it though," D'Artagnan asked, "if he had not been the son of an important noble? Would you have killed him?"

Athos sheathed his sword, and paused, main gauche in hand, choosing his words, "I won't kill unless I'm left with no other choice," he said, "There is no honor any other way."

"But you agreed to a duel," D'Artagnan continued, "Shouldn't you fight in earnest? Don't you dishonor your opponent then by refusing to adhere to the rules?"

"There are other rules at play, D'Artagnan," Athos answered, "Musketeers live to a higher code."

"Athos," Aramis interrupted quietly, nodding over toward du Bellay's group. The young noble had refastened his doublet, but had not sheathed his sword. In fact, two others of his group had drawn and now seemed to be arguing with the others about what to do next. From their glances and angry voices it appeared the seven of them were considering their odds against the four musketeers.

"Gentlemen," Athos's voice was soft but the tone of command unmistakable, "I suggest you take your leave now," he arched a brow, his hard gaze emphasizing his words.

"Or what will you do?" du Bellay spat, "Are your men cowards as you? Perhaps they would like to fight instead?"

"Brawling in the park is against the King's law," Aramis said with a smile, "You wouldn't want us to arrest you now, would you?"

"Hypocrites," he sneered, "You pick and choose what laws you uphold?"

"In my case," Athos said, "I knew there was no chance of bloodshed. In your case," Athos looked du Bellay and his men up and down, "I'm certain someone will be bleed." The taunt was too much for du Bellay. He stepped forward with his sword raised, two of his companions following behind him, weapons already drawn. D'Artagnan moved beside Athos and made to draw his sword, but a small gesture from Athos stayed his hand. None of the musketeers had drawn weapons, but Porthos, no blade to hand, stepped between the advancing men and the musketeers.

"Gentlemen," he said with infinite politeness, "you heard my friend. There is to be no brawling here today." His lips curled in a taunting smile, "Unless of course you would like to try your hand with me." He took in all three men with an eager and hungry glance, "I'm happy to hear the crack of your hard skulls beneath my fist if it will teach you a lesson in obeying the King's laws."

"My friend's wisdom is matched only by his size" Aramis offered, "So please gentlemen, take your leave."

For a moment, they all stood frozen, on a tipping point between violence and rational thinking. Porthos's size alone was a deterrent to most people, and the prospect of facing him and a trio of battle-tested swordsmen was not appealing to most of du Bellay's young entourage. Still, D'Artagnan held his breath, ready to move quickly should their tactics to diffuse the situation not work. Several long heartbeats passed and then du Bellay, broke the tension.

"Enough of this," du Bellay snarled, "I've wasted enough time here," he turned his back and returned to his men, snatching his brocade doublet from the hands of his second. He shrugged himself into the doublet and allowed one of his men to help fasten it at the shoulders and under his arm. "You, Musketeers," he spat at Athos, "You forget yourselves. You are lucky I don't enter a complaint with the King," his eyes grew hard and his lips curled in a menacing smile and his eyes fixed on Athos. "This is not over." He stalked off, his men muttering about filthy soldiers as they followed behind him.

"Fine fellow there," Porthos said sarcastically, "You spare his life, and he ends up threatening you."

"We must not be doing a good job building our fearsome reputation," Aramis said, flashing a smile to his comrades. "This maintaining the public safety is thirsty work," he added, "I suggest we retire to some refreshment." The men smiled in agreement, Aramis putting a hand on Porthos's shoulder, leading the way. D'Artagnan and Athos followed behind, back to the Paris streets and toward a tavern and a bottle of wine.


	2. Chapter 2

Deep into their third bottle, D'Artagnan found the confidence to bring up the duel again. "Just tell me again," he pressed Athos, "why you would start a fight you had no intention of winning."

"D'Artagnan," Athos said with surprising patience, "I did not start the fight, but I was wrongly accused. My reputation as a man bears on the reputation of the Musketeers. I had no choice but to accept."

Aramis leaned forward, putting his elbow on the round table between them, "This is not the first young noble who has sought to show his bravery or his honor by dueling with a Musketeer," he said, pouring out the last of their wine amongst them, "If we took on all challengers, and pressed our advantage in each case, the nobles of France would have a dire shortage of younger sons."

"There is no honor in killing a lesser opponent," Porthos added, "Especially if there is no just cause."

"But that's the point," D'Artagnan said, exasperated, "There _was_ a just cause. There _was_ honor. Isn't that the most important thing? Isn't that what defines the very character of all men?"

"Honor over what, D'Artagnan?" Athos questioned, "Over a petty and imagined grievance? Dueling over perceived insults is the realm of bored nobles with no true understanding of the value of life or the cost of death."

"We take no death lightly," Aramis added, putting a hand on D'Artagnan's arm, "We will fight to the death only when a man will not yield to the authority of the King, or to protect the innocent."

"Or to protect the life of a brother," Porthos said quietly, clapping Aramis on the shoulder, "Anyone who attacks my brother, attacks me."

"All for one?" D'Artagnan said with a smile. He'd heard that motto enough in the last weeks to realize it was not just a saying but part of a code his friends lived by. A code that touched his heart even though he was still just on the edge of it. He longed to be a Musketeer, but even more so, to be a part of this brotherhood of three was a powerful feeling. Despite the anger he had shown them at their first meeting – and foolishness he had to admit now— they had seemed to easily take him into their midst after he helped to clear Athos's name. He didn't really understand it, he just knew it was right. He found the hollow emptiness of the loss of his father filled by the presence of these men. While he dared not say it out loud, he felt like he belonged with them.

"All for one, yes, that's part of it," Aramis answered, "but also one for all. The actions we take individually are actions that are part of all of us. Individual honor is all of our honor. Just as one man's shame, is the shame of us all," Aramis's voice trailed off at that, wrapping his hands around his wine cup and dropping his gaze as if looking for something at the bottom. Porthos's hand still on Aramis's shoulder squeezed tightly, and Athos leaned forward, looking intently at the marksmen until Aramis had no choice but to raise his eyes. They exchanged an unreadable look, but D'Artagnan caught the small smile that Aramis finally gave his friend, and the slight nod that Athos shared in return.

"Marsac," Aramis said softly, lifting his glass. Porthos and Athos followed suit, a quiet toast to an unknown companion – at least unknown to D'Artagnan. So much silent communication between these men, so many shared stories that D'Artagnan would never be part of. Just a word could pass for an entire conversation. He felt foolish now thinking he could ever be inside of this no matter what his heart longed for.

Sensing his younger friend's discomfort, Athos returned his attention to the original conversation. "D'Artagnan," he said, shifting back comfortably in his chair, "all actions I take as a Musketeer become the actions of all Musketeers. It is my brothers who will pay for my follies, so my brothers keep my follies in check. If I act with honor, I honor my brothers also."

"But then in the duel," D'Artagnan circled back, still unable to understand how Athos could separate one kind of honor from another, "Where was your honor?" D'Artagnan realized as soon as the words came out that he had expressed himself poorly. He felt Athos to be the most honorable of men. He stammered to try to explain but Athos smiled at him, shaking his head.

"True honor, comes from following a noble life, not the nobility's rules," Athos said, not taking the young man's words to heart, "and the noble life says we must fight injustice, stand for the innocent, uphold the law, and perform our duty to the King. That is the oath we take as Musketeers."

"As much as a prig as du Bellay is," Porthos said with a grin, "we still can't kill 'im. He's an innocent."

"And killing prigs is unfortunately against the King's law as well," Aramis said, his eyes twinkling, "It doesn't mean we can't have fun though. We aren't saints, God rest our souls," he added, gesturing to his brow, his lips then his heart in supplication to God for all of their transgressions. Athos flagged down the tavern keep for another bottle of wine. The night was far from over.

* * *

The hour was late and the rain pouring down when they made their way home from the tavern. Athos and D'Artagnan split off from the others just before they got to the Garrison, Athos on his way to his rooms and D'Artagnan back to his bed at Madame Bonacieux's home. Despite the time, he secretly hoped she might still be awake, sitting by the fire mending something. He looked forward to their hushed, late night conversations, a forbidden moment stolen from her husband. D'Artagnan knew it was wrong, but his heart ruled his head in his decisions, particularly when it came to love. There was no circumstance in which love did not justify all manner of actions in D'Artagnan's mind.

As D'Artagnan rounded the corner of the next block the crack of a pistol shot rang out from the streets behind him. He stopped and whirled around, drawing his pistol and running back down the street the way he had come. He raced head long down the alley, slowing down just enough to skid around the corner. He slipped on the wet cobblestones and slid down onto his left side. As he pushed himself up to a sitting position, he could make out two forms at the end of the street. A man, kneeling in the middle of the road and a cloaked figure under the shelter of a balcony with an outstretched arm, pistol in hand. The kneeling man dipped his head slightly and despite the rain, D'Artagnan instantly recognized him.

"Athos!" D'Artagnan yelled as he scrambled to his feet. The cloaked man turned his head toward the shout and gave Athos an opening. Athos hurled himself toward his attacker but the distance was too great. D'Artagnan pelted down the street as a shot rang out and Athos's body fell to cobblestones. The cloaked man ran. D'Artagnan fired off his pistol but the shot went wide. The man turned the next corner just as D'Artagnan came upon Athos. The sight nearly stopped his heart.

Athos lay on his back, face pale as his shirt collar, arms stretched out from his body. The rain pelted down over his prone figure and D'Artagnan could see blood like the haze of a red cloud seeping away with the rivulets of water through the cracks in the cobblestone. He cried out in some wordless expression of grief as he flung himself to his knees beside the still form of his friend. _Just like my father,_ D'Artagnan's mind spun, _Murdered just like my father_. "No!" he shouted, picking up Athos's head and cradling him in his arms, "No, no, no," he sobbed, his tears mixing with the rain as he smoothed the wet hair from Athos's face, stroked his cheek as if willing him to live. And then it was his father's face, and he kneeled in the courtyard of the Inn and watched the red blood of his father's life wash away in the mud. It was too much, too much to bear, and D'Artagnan lost himself in grief and blood and for a moment wasn't sure who he was mourning.

Then there were hands on him, pulling him up, pulling Athos out of his lap.

"No!" he roared, "Don't touch him," he cried but the grip was strong and he found himself being restrained while Athos was pulled from his arms.

"Let 'im go," a voice he knew, large hands gripping him by the shoulders, "You have to let 'im go," a voice filled with fractured pain and urgency. D'Artagnan raised his head to meet Porthos's worried gaze. He bit his lip, trying to hold back the tears. His breath came in ragged bursts and Porthos clapped a hand behind his neck, and another on his shoulder.

"It's going to be okay, D'Artagnan," Porthos said, breathing hard himself, but trying to reassure his young friend. "It's okay," he repeated again, "It's okay."

"Porthos!" the shout came from outside of D'Artagnan's field of vision, "I need you!" Aramis called out. Porthos gave D'Artagnan an intense gaze and squeezed his shoulder then left him sitting in the rain and mud as he moved to join Aramis, bent over the still form of his mentor. D'Artagnan couldn't bear to watch them, and he shakily pushed himself to his feet. His father, now Athos . . . was he meant to keep watching helplessly as people he loved bled to death in the street? He pulled an arm across his face in a futile gesture to wipe away the tears and the water. It was too much. He felt helpless, and empty . . . and angry. Anger pushed up from his gut like a wave. It numbed the despair, the loss, the grief and flooded him with red hot heat that seared away everything else. He knew who had done this. And he knew the price he would exact. No less for Athos, than for his own father. D'Artagnan felt his tears stop and he stood up straight. Those men would pay, all of them, for taking Athos. He couldn't look at the scene of grief unfolding before him. The brotherhood he hoped to join broken before his eyes. He would give them a final gift – he would avenge their brother. D'Artagnan turned away and ran off into the wet, black night.

"Put your hand here, over mine," Aramis said to Porthos. Aramis had gotten Athos's doublet open and had his hands pressed down over his left shoulder. Porthos obeyed, and as Aramis slipped his hands out from under Porthos's, Porthos pressed down applying pressure on the chest wound. Athos didn't move, but Aramis quickly checked his pulse in his neck and found a steady, rapid beating. Satisfied, he started to uncoil his blue sash from around his torso.

"It's soaked through, but we'll get this over the wound and then get him back to the garrison," Aramis explained, "Can you lift him enough for me to get this underneath?" Porthos nodded his head and moved a hand to Athos's back and lifted his shoulders off the ground. He did his best to keep out of Aramis's way while he wound the sash.

"The ball went through," Aramis said as he worked, "That's a good sign. But he's going to need stitching. We need to get him out of the rain and back to the Garrison and I can patch this up." Athos started to moan and breathe more heavily, his head rolling from side to side. He was regaining consciousness.

"I think the two of us can manage," Porthos said, "Someone should be on guard. There could be another attack."

"D'Artagnan!" Aramis called out, but did not stop his work with the bandage. When the young man did not appear, Aramis shot Porthos a look. "I have him," Aramis said calmly. Porthos nodded and let Athos lie back into Aramis's arms. He stood, and looked about for their missing comrade.

"D'Artagnan!" he shouted, his deep voice echoing off the walls in the empty street. The rain was letting up and visibility was getting better, but he could not see any sign of the boy. "I don't know," he said to Aramis, shaking his head, frustration coloring his voice.

"Ok, we worry about him next," Aramis said with resignation. He turned his attention fully back to Athos, helping where he could first and pushing his worry about D'Artagnan aside for the moment. "Athos, can you hear me?" he asked, lightly clapping his friend's cheek. Athos tried to roll his head away from the offending hand. Aramis tried again, "Athos. Open your eyes. C'mon," Aramis ordered. With a shuddering breath Athos finally forced his eyes open and gazed up at Aramis.

"Where –" he started to speak, then shook his head, "My shoulder –" he trailed off.

"I know, I've got it," Aramis responded, knowing what Athos was trying to say, "You're still in the street. I wrapped the wound, it's not that bad, but you are leaking blood all over Paris. We need to get that stitched up. Do you think you can stand?" Aramis was not surprised to see his friend nod. Athos would insist he could walk with gunshots to both kneecaps. He looked over to Porthos who raised his eyebrows in disbelief, but nonetheless extended his hand to help Athos to his feet.

Athos gripped his arm and let Porthos do most of the work to get him upright while Aramis supported him with a hand to his back and shoulder. He was unsteady, but Porthos ducked under Athos's arm and had him by the waist before he had a chance of pitching over. He felt dizzy and the watery world was hard to focus on, but he sensed something was wrong. He tried to look around, growing agitated as his eyes refused to let in clear images.

"D'Artagnan," Athos said through pained breaths, "I saw D'Artagnan –" his dark eyes flashed with concern for his young friend.

"He was here," Porthos rumbled next to him, "By your side when we found you. He was badly shaken -crying . . . I think he thought you were dead," Porthos furrowed his brow, uncomfortable with sharing D'Artagnan's vulnerability even with his closest friends. Some things a man should be allowed to keep to himself.

"You let him . . . go off alone?" Athos was breathing heavily, pain and worry forcing him to lose his typical cool demeanor.

"We did not let him do anything," Aramis chided softly, "We were busy making sure you were in fact not dead."

"He'll come back soon enough, "Porthos started to say but Athos cut him off.

"No. No. If he thinks. . . I'm dead . . . He's angry . . . hurt," Athos tried to keep his composure and explain, "If he thinks I'm dead," he pushed on, "He'll want. . . revenge," he looked up at Aramis, his eyes almost pleading, "His father. His father died in the rain . . ." Athos's voice trailed off, a pained groan escaping his lips. The pain was getting overwhelming and his head rolled back against Porthos's shoulder as he fought to breathe through the throbbing fire expanding from his shoulder.

Aramis pursed his lips. Athos was likely right. If the boy believed Athos dead, there was no telling what he might do. But where would he go? Who would he blame for this?

"Athos," Aramis said, slipping a hand behind his friend's neck and helping him to meet his gaze, "do you know who did this? What happened?"

"Was waiting for me," Athos worked hard to speak, "under the stairs.

"Did you see who it was?" Porthos asked.

Athos shook his head, he was fighting now to stay coherent and to keep from simply moaning with every breath, "Didn't recognize him," Athos panted, he fought but couldn't find breath for more words.

"Then who is D'Artagnan chasing?" Aramis said, bewildered and frustrated.

Suddenly, Porthos took in a sharp breath as the events of the day clicked into place. "Du Bellay," he said, "It's logical. He threatened Athos, told him he would pay, that it was not over," the big man shook his head, "Coward he called you," he snarled, "and then he hides in the shadows to attack you."

"Wonderful," Aramis said, rolling his eyes, "He's off to kill the son of one of Louis's pet noblemen." Athos took off his hat and shook the water out, running a gloved hand through his damp curls. At least the rain had stopped. He looked at Athos, who looked on the verge of collapse. "Porthos, you have to get Athos back to the garrison," Aramis said, "And from the look of it, you'll probably have to carry him. I'll go after D'Artagnan. Du Bellay is a guest of Madame Beauvais at her chateau on the _Île Saint-Louis –_ even the farm boy will know that."

Aramis could see Athos ready to argue, but he put his hands to either side of his friend's face and steadied him to look him in the eye, "Brother, I will take care of our Gascon. I will bring him home." Athos's eyes looked desperate, but he trusted Aramis with his life, and the life of the people he loved. He could release this burden to him and really, he had no choice. He was spent. All his energy was now focused on remaining standing. He nodded his agreement. Aramis clapped his friend lightly on the cheek and gave him a determined smile. He looked up at Porthos and they exchanged a glance – Porthos wordlessly telling Aramis to be careful and Aramis telling Porthos to make haste – the wound was not mortal, but it was painful and now at risk of infection.

"C'mon, you," Porthos said, getting Athos moving, "Don't pass out on me or I'll carry you into the Garrison like you're a little girl," he teased. Athos's brain was too fogged with pain and worry to react, he just started moving his legs under the support and guidance of his friend.

Aramis watched them take a few steps, satisfied that Athos was functional enough to make it back to the garrison, and turned to head off after D'Artagnan. His left foot came down on something rounded and he almost lost his balance. Aramis bent down and picked up a pistol. Looking at the weapon, he could see its fine craftsmanship. This was not a typical military pistol, it belonged to someone with money. Someone like du Bellay. He turned it over in his hands, looking for the owner's markings. When he found them etched to the barrel, it was not at all what he expected. He needed to find D'Artagnan before he made a terrible mistake.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Thank you for the lovely comments and encouragement. It means a lot and it keeps me writing. So does the Fetes de Mousquetaires monthly contest on the forums. The prompts are great and I hope more people get inspired to give it a try.**

* * *

D'Artagnan did not remember how he had found himself at the _Ponte de la Tournelle_ , but he stood now at the foot of the bridge, breathing heavily, drenched from the rain. The skies had dried at some point and now a cold moon tried to break through streaks of clouds. His mind felt battered, hanging on to shreds of memories – Athos pale and lifeless in his arms, the cloud of blood washing away with the rain water, his father clutching his hand as his life seeped from him. D'Artagnan took in a ragged breath and pushed all of that from his thoughts. He focused instead on one face – du Bellay. Athos's words about honor were washed away with his blood. D'Artagnan, with no code, no brotherhood, would be the instrument of brutal justice in the murder of his friend. This was honor. He steadied his breathing, felt the slight shake in his taught limbs cease. A deadly calm overtook him. There was no fear now of losing his own life as without his father, without his mentor, and without the promise of brotherhood the Musketeers had offered, there was nothing precious about himself to save. D'Artagnan pushed his wet hair from his face and strode forward across the bridge, death walking with him under the struggling moonlight.

As small as the _Île Saint-Louis_ was, D'Artagnan was uncertain of where to go next. The grand townhouses and _hôtels particulier_ , each with their gates and courtyards were a different Paris than the gritty streets he was learning to navigate. He knew du Bellay was here, but he was unsure how to find him. While lights burned in many of the windows and the sound of music or laughter lifted on the breeze, few were out in the streets with night wearing late and the weather still threatening. He walked along the broad avenue and read the placards on the gates with no luck. He felt his temper rising with his frustration. How was he going to find du Bellay? He rounded a corner and came upon a coachman depositing a Lord and his lady at the gates of a stately _maison_. Finally someone he could ask. In a few moments he had directions and made his way across the small island city to the _Hôtel Beauvais_.

The gates were open at the grand chateau and lanterns were lit behind the fluttering silk curtains in the long windows of the second floor. D'Artagnan walked confidently to the entrance, his approach immediately noted by liveried footmen who beckoned to someone inside. Just as D'Artagnan started up the marble steps, the _majordome_ opened the door and stood in the threshold. He took in D'Artagnan's rough and bedraggled appearance with a keen eye, but his words were nothing short of polite.

"May I be of assistance to you, Monsieur?" he asked.

"I'm looking for Henri du Bellay," D'Artagnan said calmly, although he felt his blood beginning to rise, "Where is he?"

"May I ask your business, Monsieur?" the _majordome_ countered.

D'Artagnan smiled warmly, "I'm here with a message from Athos of the King's Musketeers," he said with a slight bow of respect, "I have been instructed to deliver it personally." D'Artagnan waited for the butler to make up his mind, confident that his charm and feigned sincerity would win the man over. He was not disappointed.

"A moment, please, Monsieur . . . " the _majordome_ paused, looking expectantly at the young man.

"D'Artagnan," he supplied the answer with a smile that did not reach his eyes.

"Monsieur D'Artagnan," the butler gave a small nod, "one moment as I announce you to the Comte." The man turned on his heel and walked back into the house. The smile immediately dropped from D'Artagnan's face and he stepped back into the courtyard. This would be the fight that du Bellay had so craved. D'Artagnan had watched him in the duel, knew his tells, knew his weaknesses. He was good, but D'Artagnan had no doubt he could best him. He slipped on his gloves and made minor adjustments to his sword belt. D'Artagnan forgot about being cold, wet and tired. The heat of anticipated battle was rising and he began to pace the courtyard like a wild cat looking to find prey. The minutes seemed interminable, but then the door was open and the young Comte was striding out to meet him, flanked by one of the men from earlier in the day. Only du Bellay was armed, a sword on his hip, hastily slipped on over a silk jerkin.

"What is this interruption," du Bellay asked with great show, "Has the coward Athos sent his stable boy to plead for me not to take revenge?" The man beside him laughed.

D'Artagnan met du Bellay in the center of the courtyard, standing just a foot apart.

"Athos is dead by your hand," D'Artagnan said quietly, "and I am here to demand justice," he punctuated his words by shoving du Bellay in the chest. Du Bellay stepped back a pace and his man gasped at the insult and the assault. Even in the ruddy lantern light, D'Artagnan could see du Bellay's face turn crimson with anger, but he motioned for the other man to stand down.

"I had no part in Athos's death," du Bellay snarled, "but I am not surprised to hear of it. He was a coward and had no honor," he drew his sword at this, "and you, stable boy, are about to join him." D'Artagnan drew his rapier as well, no further words needed now as du Bellay was going to so easily oblige him in his quest for a duel. The two men circled each other, assessing speed and reflex, beginning with what is often a dance of feints and parries to test the other's skills. But now that he faced Athos's killer, D'Artagnan let the last of his patience drain away. Anguish and anger roiled inside him and he lunged at du Bellay with a roar. Du Bellay was caught off guard by the fierceness of the attack and skittered backwards as D'Artagnan rained down overhand cuts and slices. Du Bellay held his composure enough to parry the wild attacks, but the viciousness he saw in his attacker's eyes was terrifying. This whelp truly wished to kill him. Du Bellay offered his own roar in return and the two men spun and whirled together in a clatter of swords and daggers.

D'Artagnan's attacks were passionate but undisciplined, leaving himself vulnerable in many of his passes. Du Bellay was frightened but skilled. He mounted a strong defense and took advantage of D'Artagnan's mistakes. D'Artagnan overreached a thrust and du Bellay managed a shallow cut across the upper arm. On the next pass, an ill-timed overhead cut left D'Artagnan open to a slice across the ribs. Most of the blow raked his leather doublet, but enough bit into the soft flesh at his side. Both strikes were to D'Artagnan's sword arm, and now a slow ache was growing each time he pressed further with his blade. The pain only served to fuel D'Artagnan's anger, and it was as if a veil descended over his eyes, blocking out everyone and everything around him save for his opponent. Another wide swing and D'Artagnan felt fire sear along his left arm. With a cry of rage and pain he hurled himself at du Bellay. He tucked under the nobleman's high thrust and barreled into him with his shoulder. They fell to the cobblestone with a clatter, du Bellay's sword shaken from his grip by the force of the impact. As he scrambled for it, D'Artagnan rolled them both over, so du Bellay was on his back, D'Artagnan straddling him. He had his sword pressed to the soft flesh beneath du Bellay's chin. This battle was over and justice would be served. Both men were panting, but D'Artagnan paused to find the man's eyes.

"This is for Athos," he said between breaths, "for the most honorable man I have ever known."

"Wait!" du Bellay cried, "I yield! I yield!" his eyes were desperate. D'Artagnan pulled back his lips in a cruel smile.

"You yield?" He laughed coldly, "Did you think to offer that chance to Athos when you shot him dead in the streets?" D'Artagnan laid his main gauche across du Bellay's neck and tossed his sword to the side. This death would be intimate.

"I did not shoot him, "du Bellay pleaded, "Please! I swear this on my honor! Please . . ." D'Artagnan heard the stifled sob in the man's throat but he was past caring. This was for Athos, for honor, for the torn brotherhood that this man had destroyed. He leaned in to press the dagger to du Bellay's neck, imprinting on his mind the terror and desperation on the man's face. D'Artagnan knew he would hang for this, but the image of du Bellay's face he would take to his grave.

"D'Artagnan!" the familiar voice penetrated the fog of D'Artagnan's emotions. "D'Artagnan," it called again, urgent and desperate enough to cause him to waiver in delivering the killing stroke.

"D'Artagnan, put up your blade," confused, D'Artagnan looked up to see Aramis standing in front of him, D'Artagnan's rapier in his hand holding du Bellay's companion at bay, "This man did not kill Athos."

"He did," D'Artagnan spat, tears welling in his eyes, "He did. I was there!" He turned his rage back to the man held beneath his dagger.

"No!" Aramis said firmly, then softened his features and his voice, "No. You are wrong. I bound Athos's wounds myself. Porthos has taken him to the Garrison. He lives," Aramis stepped closer to D'Artagnan, his voice low and despairing, "Look at me," Aramis demanded. D'Artagnan bit his lip and looked up at his friend. "Athos is alive. You must trust me."

D'Artagnan choked back a small sob, his hand beginning to tremble as he looked at Aramis in abject confusion. He had held Athos in his arms, watched the blood run from his body, but here was Aramis saying he was alive.

"D'Artagnan, stop," Aramis's voice was calm and reassuring, now that he knew he had D'Artagnan's attention. He held out an empty hand. "Give me your blade," he said again, a slight tone of command sliding into his soft voice, "This is not our way," he continued quietly, "Vengeance is not justice."

Vengeance is not justice. D'Artagnan's mind spun around the words. He thought he was serving justice but if Athos was not dead . . . Aramis would not lie to him. He looked up again to his friend, his breathing starting to come in ragged gasps, his body beginning to tremble. If Athos was not dead, he had no right to kill this man. He had no right to kill any man. His father had taught him that. With a small cry he dropped his dagger and rolled to his side to sit beside du Bellay. The stunned young Comte pushed himself away from D'Artagnan, and shakily got to his feet. Aramis smoothly bent and retrieved D'Artagnan's dagger and slipped it into his belt. Then he picked up du Bellay's sword. He held both swords casually, but he placed himself between du Bellay and D'Artagnan, the only armed man now in the courtyard.

"He is insane!" du Bellay shouted.

"He is grieving," Aramis answered simply, "And with good cause. His friend was shot this evening."

"Not by me!" du Bellay continued to shout, "I had nothing to do with it. This stable boy came here, called me out of my apartments, set on me with a sword!" du Bellay was sputtering he was so mad, "I will have the red guards down upon him and he will rot in the _Chatelet_ until he is hanged for attacking me!"

"You may not have shot Athos," Aramis continued, his quiet tone demanding du Bellay work to listen, "but one of your company did."

"No. That is not possible," du Bellay was dismissive, "They have too much honor to shoot that cowardly bastard. You have no proof to this." Aramis clenched his jaw and shook his head. No one was listening well today. He slipped D'Artagnan's sword into his belt and drew a pistol from his holster. He flipped it in his hand so that he held it by the muzzle and extended the handle to du Bellay.

"Here," he offered, "This was dropped in the street beside my bleeding companion." Du Bellay snatched the pistol, and looked at it. It was balanced and clean, fine etchings and scroll work decorating the barrels.

"This could belong to anyone," du Bellay scoffed.

"It could," Aramis replied with a cold smile, "but the initials on the barrel say otherwise. M.D.B. – Marcus du Bellay I believe is your younger brother?"

Du Bellay's face fell as he recognized the pistol. He looked up and locked his gaze on the other man in the courtyard. His younger brother stared back at him, chin lifted defiantly.

"He made a fool of you," his voice was pitched high and he spoke through a clenched jaw, "Our family's honor demanded he pay." He raised himself up to stand with his shoulders back, "I did my duty as your brother. I took revenge on the man who hurt our family. I don't regret it."

"Your brother has just admitted to attacking a King's Musketeer in the street, with no provocation, Aramis smiled coldly at du Bellay, "The penalty for that is likely to be hanging."

"And what of your man?" du Bellay gestured toward D'Artagnan now on his feet behind Aramis. "He attacked a noble for no cause. If my brother is to hang, that one will be by his side."

Aramis took a step toward du Bellay and shifted the man's rapier in his grasp so that he was now holding the blade. He offered the hilt to the young Comte as he quietly suggested the next course of action, "Take your weapons, and your younger brother," he said in low tones pitched for only the Comte to hear, "and leave Paris tomorrow." The Comte glared at him with a defiant eye, but Aramis raised a brow and continued, "Because if you do not, your entire household will be at risk. The Musketeers are beloved of the King, and Athos is one of his favorites. Do not test his majesty's loyalties. Comtes are not rare at court but a Musketeer like Athos is a jewel in his crown." Aramis gave the Comte a small smile, his upturned lips hiding the lie in his words. He knew full well that if word of this got to the King, Cardinal Richelieu would not hesitate to insist that Athos and D'Artagnan both be hanged. But he was banking on du Bellay not to know that. "I'm offering you a way out for both you and your brother. I suggest you take it."

Du Bellay hesitated only a moment. He grabbed the offered sword from Aramis and simply turned on his heel and stalked to his brother. He shoved the pistol into Marcus's hands and pushed past him and back into the house. Marcus looked stunned, not certain of what had happened, but not prepared to do anything without his older brother. He meekly followed him back inside. It was only after the door closed and the courtyard was lit only by moonlight that Aramis turned to face D'Artagnan.

The young man stood with hunched shoulders and bowed head. He was unmoving except for his breathing, which shook his frame with each shuddering inhale. His arms hung limply at his sides, damp hair plastered to his face. D'Artagnan looked utterly defeated, and terribly vulnerable. He seemed unaware of the empty courtyard or that Aramis had now turned his attention toward him. Aramis watched him for a moment, feeling love and worry rise. While he could not say he knew exactly how D'Artagnan was feeling, he did know how body and mind collapsed on itself after the thralls of a rage loosened their bonds. Blood trickled unabated and unnoticed down D'Artagnan's left hand, a sign that the wound on his arm needed tending. The soldier knew that D'Artagnan needed to be handled gently. With the same care one might take approaching a frightened child, Aramis stepped to D'Artagnan's side.

"Let's get you out of here," he said softly, slipping his left hand around D'Artagnan's arm and his right hand to the small of his back. D'Artagnan raised his head and looked at Aramis, raw grief and weariness spilling unfiltered from his gaze. Aramis's soft eyes held no judgement or chastisement, only concern and caring. He raised a brow in inquiry and D'Artagnan nodded his head. Yes, he'd let Aramis lead him. There were not many options for shelter and sanctuary on the _Île Saint-Louis_ e but Aramis knew of one quiet place where they would not be turned away.

The island was small and after only a few minutes Aramis and D'Artagnan were inside the vestibule of the Catholic church. Aramis paused at the entrance to dip his fingers in the basin of holy water and cross himself in a silent prayer to God for healing for both Athos and D'Artagnan. Aramis led D'Artagnan down the center aisle and to the small Mary chapel at the right of the main altar. Aramis was not sure how the priests would feel, but he thought this was the perfect place to tend to D'Artagnan's wounds – both of the body and of the soul.

He sat the young man down on one of the chairs in the chapel and brought another around so that he could sit across from him. Watching D'Artagnan's face for signs of distress or protest, he took the boy's left arm in his hands and gently pushed up the torn shirt sleeve. The gash along the forearm was deep and needed to be properly cleaned and dressed soon, but for now, Aramis was just concerned with stopping the bleeding and getting his friend home. He had nothing on him to use for a bandage, but stood and looked around the chapel, leaving a hand on D'Artagnan's shoulder just to keep a bond of human contact a moment longer. He spied a stack of linen cloths on the altar table, placed there to carefully clean the communion vessels. Aramis knew it was wrong to tamper with the rituals of holy mass, but he hoped in this case God would make an exception. He gave D'Artagnan's shoulder a reassuring squeeze and moved to retrieve some of the neatly folded linen from the pile of cloths. He crossed himself as he returned, asking God's forgiveness for the transgression, but smiling as he realized this one was probably low on an already long list. He also picked up a glass container of water – this was not holy water but simply used to clean the vessels used in the communion service. He had no guilt borrowing it.

He sat again in front of D'Artagnan and took his arm once more into his lap. He dampened the linen cloth and gently started to clean the wound. This time, D'Artagnan winced, but he did not pull away. Aramis glanced up and was heartened to meet D'Artagnan's gaze. His eyes were full of sadness, and questions, but he seemed to be present now. D'Artagnan cleared his throat as if to speak, but hesitated. Aramis gave him a reassuring smile.

"This is not too bad," he said, nodding toward D'Artagnan's wound. Aramis set aside the damp, bloody cloth and placed a fresh folded linen along the gash, pressing gently to get the bleeding to stop. "We'll get it bandaged up, and then we'll head home," D'Artagnan nodded his acquiescence. "You'll be fine," Aramis continued, "And so will Athos." At the mention of Athos's name, D'Artagnan's eyes flicked away, but he still said nothing. "The shot went through the shoulder," Aramis continued, as he took out his dagger and began to cut long strips from the alter cloths. "In and out with minimal damage, missed everything important" Aramis smiled, "That man has the luck of a cat sometimes." Aramis began to wind the cloth strips around D'Artagnan's arm, tying them over the folded linen. A clean and effective bandage.

"I thought he was dead," D'Artagnan said, quietly, "I heard the shot, saw him fall, and he was lying there, blood washing away with the rain. It was just . . . just like . . ." he trailed off, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth to keep from sobbing.

"Like your father?" Aramis offered softly.

"Yes," D'Artagnan breathed, his voice barely above a whisper, "Like my father. For a moment I saw . . . I know it couldn't have been real . . . but I saw his face. Athos's face, my father's face," tears began to fall from D'Artagnan's eyes, "Both of them, together. Both dead," he sniffed and raked a hand across his eyes, "How can this be?" D'Artagnan looked to Aramis with fear and pleading in his eyes.

Aramis put a reassuring hand on the young man's shoulder, "Your mind was overwhelmed," he answered carefully, "When you saw Athos in the street, it brought back visions . . . echoes perhaps, of seeing your father there. For a moment, you were in both places at once, seeing both deaths. It's a terrifying thing."

"It was so real," D'Artagnan said, struggling to regain his composure. Somehow the fact that Aramis understood what he was saying, wasn't questioning his sanity, gave him comfort, "Will this keep happening?"

"For a while, perhaps," Aramis said, a dim sadness dampening his bright eyes, "But in time it gets better. With friends it gets bearable," he smiled companionably at D'Artagnan.

D'Artagnan smiled thinly back, then realization dawned. "This has happened to you," he said, not a question, but a soft statement to his older friend.

Aramis found a wry smile, "Yes. It has happened to me, it does still sometimes. It is not an uncommon thing for soldiers to experience," he replied. Aramis considered how much to say, but he did not want to frighten the boy with the depths his own nightmares took him too. Not yet anyway. Like the others, he too felt that D'Artagnan was already becoming one of their brotherhood, not just a Musketeer, but an Inseparable as their other comrades liked to joke. He was sure that in time he would let D'Artagnan know everything, but now was not that moment. He chose his words with kindness as he continued, "All of us suffer of it in some form of another. Ghosts that come back at different times. Why do you think Athos drinks?" he said with a small laugh, "Or why Porthos hates to spend evenings alone even if it means losing all of his coin in a tavern?" Aramis won a smile from D'Artagnan at that, "Each of us has demons, each of us fights them. You are no exception. We all wish we could take that pain away from the other. No one can do that, but we can at least be there to help ride out the storm. That is part of our bond, part of what makes us brothers. Of what makes you," Aramis squeezed D'Artagnan's arm for emphasis, "our brother too."

D'Artagnan felt his face flush with warmth as Aramis included him among his companions. The tug of their bond was strong, and even though it was only a months old, if felt like his father, like family. D'Artagnan swallowed the lump rising in his throat. He had more to say. "I would have killed him," he said, fixing a steady gaze on Aramis, "Du Bellay, I was about to kill him."

"I know," Aramis said quietly.

"If you hadn't been there, I would have," D'Artagnan felt like he was offering a confession.

"One of us will always be there," Aramis replied.

"You can't know that," D'Artagnan said, fear rising in his heart. "I almost killed an innocent man. I am no better than the coward I thought I was fighting," D'Artagnan dropped his head in shame. Aramis shifted in his chair, leaning his hands on his knees, searching for the right words to comfort his friend.

"Musketeers are never without a brother at their side," Aramis began, "even physically separated, you know you are not alone." The Gascon looked up then, a desire for hope or reassurance, something to hold on to clear on his features. Aramis realized that until only a few months ago, it was D'Artagnan's father who would have been his anchor, his moral compass through early manhood. He considered for the first time how alone D'Artagnan must feel and remembered his own journey from his life with his mother to Paris, and eventually the Garrison and what was to become his family. Aramis had been just as lost, as had Athos and Porthos – no home to return to, no father to guide any of them. It finally became clear to Aramis how D'Artagnan had so quickly become part of their threesome. Unlike most of the regiment, many who were second sons of nobles or merchants, D'Artagnan, like them, was truly alone. All of them recognized this and it fueled their easy acceptance of him.

"All for one, D'Artagnan," Aramis said, "means we are all here," Aramis reached and put a hand over D'Artagnan's heart, "all the time. We live by a code and our faithfulness to it is our faithfulness to each other. We fight injustice, stand for the innocent, uphold the law, and serve the King. We do not break from this, for that would break our brotherhood," Aramis straightened up, sitting back in his chair. D'Artagnan did the same, unconsciously matching Aramis's posture as he let his words land. He had not wanted to hear this earlier this evening, now he was hanging on to Aramis's words like a life line across a roiling river.

"One for all," Aramis said, "is that I will fight to the death for my brother. I will offer up my life for his. I will sit with him through the darkest night of his soul, and I will carry him home safely from battle . . . or from a tavern," Aramis gave D'Artagnan a sly smile and a wink. He was rewarded with a small chuckle from his young friend, who had already been party to several tavern escapades. Smiling still, Aramis continued, "And, I will not throw away my life lightly, for then I leave my brother alone." D'Artagnan took in a deep breath and bit his lip, understanding beginning to dawn on him, "D'Artagnan, we do not seek vengeance as we uphold the law. We do not subscribe to any idea of honor other than what we hold honorable among ourselves."

D'Artagnan nodded his head, letting Aramis's words fall into the open places in his heart, "I endangered us, all of us, by acting without honor – by putting my need for revenge above the law of the King," D'Artagnan said simply, "I let you all down if I am killed or imprisoned because then I cannot be there when I am needed. But," D'Artagnan's breath hitched as he struggled to give voice to the unspeakable, "If Athos had died, if du Bellay had done it . . . could you have let him live?"

Aramis pursed his lips, searching his heart for an honest answer. "I'm not sure," he said finally, softly, "But I think, I hope, if I had du Bellay beneath my knife, I'd remember my brothers. So far, that has not failed me and so far, we have never found reason to set aside our code, our rules, for any cause. I pray though that it is never put to the test."

D'Artagnan inhaled and nodded. He thought about his father, how the lessons he had taught him about honor, respect, loyalty and courage were now part of him, the code perhaps of his own life. His father was still with him in those words, just as the Musketeers would be with him even if he were standing alone. D'Artagnan stood, taking a deep breath and moving a few steps away from Aramis, looking toward the altarpiece at the end of the chapel. This feeling of not being alone, of belonging, of having noble words to live in his heart gave him a peace that he had not known for a long time. A warmth descended on him, and he could imagine his father smiling, could almost see him, just there, from the corner of his eye. He took in another breath and turned back to Aramis, grounded again in his own strength despite how tired he was feeling.

"Thank you," D'Artagnan said quietly, stepping toward his friend and offering his hand. Aramis took it and stood, but instead of letting go, pulled D'Artagnan to him. One hand clasped between their breasts, Aramis reached the other over D'Artagnan's shoulder and held him lightly in a brotherly embrace. He waited a moment, and then D'Artagnan's arm was around his shoulders and they stood quietly together. After a moment, Aramis thumped D'Artagnan's back and dropped his hand.

"Let's get back," he said, an arm still looped over D'Artagnan's shoulders, "I need to finish cleaning you up," he gave D'Artagnan's shoulder a little squeeze, "And I have to stop Porthos from making a complete mess of Athos's stitches. And I have stop Athos from getting even more worried about you. Otherwise I'll be having this entire conversation all over again, only Athos will be the one sitting on du Bellay," he added with a smile. D'Artagnan couldn't help but smile back.

"One for all seems to mean you are pretty busy," D'Artagnan teased.

"Yes, my friend," Aramis replied, shaking his head and affecting a pained expression, "Yes, indeed. But I wouldn't have it any other way." Aramis gave D'Artagnan a nod and they left the church, making their way back to the garrison under the light of a friendly moon.

\- FIN -


End file.
